


Illusory

by brasspetal



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Explicit Language, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Longing, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Build, Survivors Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-15 02:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11220954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brasspetal/pseuds/brasspetal
Summary: The land is decaying; eaten up by ghosts.---------------After the destruction of Alexandria, the group is scattered. Inspired by the book/film The Road.





	1. Haunt

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a prequel series to this chaptered fic called [ The Nameless Quiet ](http://archiveofourown.org/series/742713) It isn't necessary but if you want a background it's there for you to read! Thank you!

The land is decaying; eaten up by ghosts.

He thinks somewhere along the line the old Rick checked out, the old Rick passed in the night. It was a quiet death, and no one noticed. No one had time to.

Rick takes a machete to the nearest walker that wails at him and its blood gives way to the fog. He stares at it for the longest time, lost within it. It leaves speckled stains on his cheek and clothes. His hands were covered in dirt from crawling in the mud. When had he crawled?

There’s a burning raw heat behind him and he can’t turn around to look at it. He refuses. Everything they were, everything they were supposed to be is crumbling slowly to ash. He felt snapped loose, released on the world. He’s wild-eyed and alone.

He screams for his son into the abyss of trees before him. The woods didn’t hold the clarity they used to.  

All these dead memories, left to rot inside him.

Rick’s grief is a quiet crescendo and he has to use the trunk of a scarred tree to keep himself upright. His shoulders are wracked by his sobs. He lost them. Where had they _gone_?

He lets another scream rip through him as he slices viciously into the next Walker that crosses his path.

By now he’s drenched and he’s something else entirely. He stumbles forward through the clacking of the trees. Their branches like finger bones. They are guiding him forward, down a dark slick path.

There’s a few corpses lying scattered in the brush, as if someone came through here before him or he’s going around in circles.

The closer he looked, the more it appeared to be a wound a crossbow would produce.

“Daryl!” He calls out to the eerie forest-light.

A screeching cry is his only answer from deep in the woods. He doesn’t pay it much mind. He just shambles on.

The delirium sets in and he welcomes it.

Dark figures appear from the trees and he crouches behind a cracked rock in wait. As the Walkers pass, he uses his hunting knife to carve through them as if he’s painting the sky. The violence of it, leaves a path like bread crumbs.

“I’m here.” He whispers. “Where’d you go?”

He lifts his knife above one of the corpses and guts it, spreading the blood and viscera across his face and clothes. These Walkers were part of a migrating herd and he wasn’t about to get caught by them.

The moon is a bright reminder, a beacon, highlighting the dead wood. He’s haunting these woods now like the rest.

\--

He was right. There was a herd and they pass on through about an hour after he predicted it. They're nothing but dark weeping silhouettes. They’re terrifying in this light. He moves through them as if he’s traversing a tide. They sway and moan towards him. They want to hear him scream but he’s not going to give them that. Not here.

Rick can be a silhouette too, he can blend in with the decay. He'd do this forever, if forever would be what it took to find his group again. To find Carl, to find Daryl.

He’d swim in the dirt into the moonlight, into this nightmare if he could just find them.

“Where are you?” He whispers and the Walkers drag their feet beside him, aimless.

He watches a few tumble down a steep incline, breaking their bones and limbs on rocks on the way. He hadn’t known it was there until he watched them fall into the dark. They just disappear in front of him. He makes his way beyond the herd, where a few stragglers roam. He stabs forward quick, to dispatch them and heads straight into the thick foliage.

He could hardly see in front of him and the dark is always moving, drawing his eyes to some sinister shape come to life. It proves disastrous, however. It seems the entire area is surrounded by steep inclines. He slips, his boot missing the ground and rolls forward uncoordinated down a hill. The twigs snap at him and scratch up his arms on the way down. The fall isn’t far, luckily. He rolls onto the dried soil beneath him and grunts softly. He could hear a chorus of moans coming from every direction and the sound of rushing water.

He headed forward, his steps guided by the moon, his only source of light he had at his disposal. He’d carve himself a path if he had to.

He followed the small creek to a flooded river. The water is slowly growing dangerous the further he moves alongside it. He would surely drown if he fell in, unable to tell what’s up or down.

There’s a dilapidated wooden row boat washed up on shore that had been cracked in half years ago.

He wondered how long it would be before the vines claimed the Earth, wrapping themselves around their histories. Rick could imagine being wrapped up too, disappearing into the dirt. He’d become a tree. The kind who’s roots sprung up like spider legs.

“Carl?” He asks the woods quietly and they don’t answer back. His leg is throbbing and he can feel the warm liquid roll down his knee. He must have cut it on the fall but can't tell how bad it is in this dark.

The moonlight is dimmed by a thinned cloud and Rick grips the nearest tree trunk to get a survey of the surroundings. He listened mostly to the water and moans. There’s not much solace to be found here, not alone. Not after Alexandria. They were torn and scattered like lost puzzle pieces. How do they find each other in the dark?

He spots a shape making its way across the flowing river ahead and he just waits, watching. The figure is clumsy with its efforts. It’s a Walker. Even in the dark he can tell. They all walk the same, lost forever, looking for something they’ll never achieve again. He used to ruminate over such things but now he just waits with quiet breath, until he has to use his knife again. There’s a screech beside him, a Walker that somehow sneaked it’s way through the brush and he falls down into the mud, startled. It screams at him and viciously lunges but before it can snap its jaws, an arrow bursts through its skull. It thuds on the ground in front of him. He cringes, setting his hand to his wounded leg and forces himself to stand.  The dark isn’t moving. He recognized the arrow. 

“Daryl?” He whispers to the trees.

A large dark cloud moves over the moon, blocking out the little light he has.  He reaches forward, ripping the arrow out of the Walker.

“You ain’t hard to track.” He hears from behind him and he turns on a breath. He can hardly see the outline of him but there he is, come up out of the night as if he belonged there.


	2. Epitaph

The clouds finally release the moon and it’s almost too bright. There’s an ethereal haze to Rick’s outline.

“Daryl….” It’s a whispered relief.

He looked spent, torn down. There’s a temporary madness to his movements.

“We’ll find em’. You hurt?” Daryl questions and Rick looks out further into the dark to a place Daryl can’t see, beyond the fog.  Daryl knew he had been limping, he could tell when he was tracking him.

Rick slowly points ahead at a dark figure; sweat dripping down his neck. He’s covered in the entrails of the dead.  

“Just a Walker. Come on.” Daryl whispers and throws his crossbow behind his back.  He sets his hand on Rick’s shoulder, startling him out of his trance. He looks to him, disorientated.

Daryl grabs Rick’s arm to put over his shoulder and Rick steps back. He stumbles and almost falls against the trunk of a tree. “I can walk.” He grits

“Then walk.” Daryl replies, moving ahead into the dark. He grips his crossbow again and fires an arrow into the lone shadow of the Walker ahead.

Rick’s boots crunch and slide behind him. “We have to find the others.”  

“Not tonight we ain’t. We need to find a place to hole up until mornin’.” Daryl says and lifts his crossbow to aim ahead at another dark shape. It lumbers into view moaning loudly and he fires, sending it into the dirt.

“Carl….Judith.” Rick’s voice wavers.

“We’ll find em’ but searchin’ in the dark is a sure way to die.” Daryl moves ahead, keeping his crossbow at the ready. 

“Did you see his tracks?” His limp is getting worse the further they walk.

“Only saw yours.” Daryl replies. “Through here.”

He slides through the bushes and out into a dark clearing. There’s an old cabin beneath the vines beyond. It’s a place time forgot and nature began to take what’s left. The windows are boarded up and the siding is peeling off. Rick limps up behind him, his knife at the ready.

“We’ll go around back.” Daryl whispers and he motions for him to follow.

The cabin wasn’t anything special, it’s even smaller than he originally thought. The front door wasn’t even locked. He pulls it open easily. He’s ready to shoot an arrow into anyone that deemed it necessary to jump out at them. There’s an old rotten corpse on a dusty couch with a head wound. The gun is missing but Daryl knew he must have shot himself when this whole thing began. A lot of people ‘opted’ out. That choice was never in the cards for Daryl. The world has always been the same to him and today, in this moment, it isn’t any different. Those moments that shaped him into something feral paid off when the world met its end.  Rick limps inside, breathing heavy with exhaustion.

“There’s nothin’ here.” Rick supplies and Daryl points to the couch.

“Need to look at your leg, you’ve been bleedin’ all over the place.”

He doesn’t argue. Daryl suspects he’s too tired to bother. Rick slumps down and sends an onslaught of dust into the air. He coughs against it and eyes the corpse beside him.  Daryl sets his bag down next to his crossbow and shoves the corpse off the couch to make room.

“We need to find them.” Rick says, hoarsely. His eyes are watering and he still looks as though he swam in a river of blood.

“We will.”

Daryl reaches in his bag and pulls out a half empty water bottle, which he holds out to Rick. Rick holds up his hand, declining.

“C’mon. You ain’t gonna find them if you’re dead.” Daryl adds and Rick slowly takes the water bottle from him. He’s staring at Daryl with an intensity he isn’t prepared for. Rick always had that ability to hold Daryl in place with just his eyes.

He takes a sip of water and Daryl grabs the bottle from him after, pouring it over the wound on Rick’s thigh. It’s a deep gash of gnarled skin but it’d heal if given the chance. He grabs some left-over gauze he keeps in his bag and begins patching it up as best as he can.

“I failed them again. They trusted me to keep them safe.” Rick comments, quietly.

Daryl puts pressure on his thigh and says, “You failed nobody.”

Rick is concentrating on Daryl’s hand resting over his wound. “You hear me?” Daryl asks.

Rick swallows and looks up at him, a hazy expression forming on his face. He blinks and replies with quiet despair, “My children are lost.”

Daryl reaches over and grabs Rick’s hand to put pressure on the gauze. “It’s almost mornin’.”

He stands from his crouching position and peeks out of the small crack in the boards. There’s nothing but darkness and the silent creak of the old wood beneath them.  The truth is, Daryl couldn’t look at Rick right now. Every time he glances his way and sees that grief he holds so tight, it makes Daryl feel as if something is trying to claw its way out of his chest.

\--

The daylight is a dim gray and the fog that rolled in, ate up the visibility they thought they’d have. Rick limps ahead, getting swallowed up by the low-lying clouds. Daryl hears the aimless scream of a Walker and the inevitable slice of a knife, silencing it.

“We have to backtrack.” Rick calls.

They traverse the fog together, finding the flooded river once again. It didn’t seem as angry in the half-light. Daryl kept his eyes to the dirt, searching for any signs. He couldn’t see anything worth noting except for the kicked-up soil from a Walker dragging its feet or the stumbling tracks of Rick earlier that night.

“There ain’t nothin’ here. Best keep movin’.” Daryl comments and they hike through the twisted twigs collecting beside the water.

“What if…” Rick begins and Daryl interrupts, “They’re fine. We’ll find em’.”

Rick walks beside him then, watching the dead landscape. Even the trees look like they belong. Each a skeleton.

Places like this, where the light can’t even touch, reminds him of home.

There’s a scream ahead that echoes from the woods. It sends birds careening upwards into the dark clouds. They both exchange glances of concern before they take off along the river. They pass by a small waterfall, blasting down from a ridge. It drowned out most of the sound, except for the screaming. Rick had his hand resting against his wound, as if that would keep the pain at bay. They fight through brambles that lash out at them and come to a small creek that empties into the river.

The screams are cut short before they reach it and they can see the dead gathering in a small circle, ripping apart whoever made them.

Rick didn’t waste any time, he jumped into the foray and Daryl held up his crossbow, dispatching the nearest. It doesn’t take long to clear out the small pack.

They’d been feasting on a woman, a resident of Alexandria. Daryl didn’t know her but he recognized her. She’d sometimes walk the grounds at night and kept mostly to herself. Rick stands there staring down at her corpse like it held all his answers.

“You knew her?” Daryl asks and Rick is as silent as a statue. “Rick?”

He watches Rick’s shoulders tense and he says, softly. “Not well…”

Daryl moves ahead along the creek, kicking at the branches at his feet. The mud is swelling with water along the edges. He spots it though, as clear as day. The beginnings of footprints, smaller and thin. It looked as though they stumbled into the creek and then ran towards a gap in the trees, which led to the river again. It bent around them like a snake.

“Rick! Over here.” Daryl calls and a crow caws at him from the clacking branches.

Rick limps over to him through the creek and rests a hand on Daryl’s shoulder when he reaches him. Daryl points to the footprints and watches the hope build itself up again in Rick’s features. The feeling pulls Daryl into a vise and he looks down at those muddy distinct footprints.

“Carl!” Rick chances but it’s only the crows that answer back.

“He headed towards the bend in the river.” Daryl says.

They carefully follow the tracks through the gap in the trees and along the river that’s flowing dangerously fast. There had been damaging floods along the bank recently. Giant tree branches had collapsed into the water, creating a make-shift bridge. The tracks lead there.

The branch is too slippery. They have to crawl across it, with the water flowing beneath. Rick is ahead of him, pretending that his leg isn’t bothering him. The tree branch sways and they both cease all movement.

“We need to hurry.” Rick says, glancing behind him at Daryl. He nods once and they pick up the pace. Crawling on a slick tree branch is more difficult then he imagined. He couldn’t get a proper grip and his feet kept slipping away from him. He feels like a clumsy fool. Rick reaches for the dried grass of the shore but the branch shifts. It tumbles sideways and Daryl collapses with it into the ripping current. He flounders for a moment and dives out of the way of the cracking branch. He forces himself upwards towards the dim sky and coughs against the air that assaults him. He couldn’t keep afloat for long or get a grip on the slippery rocks that surrounded him. The last thing he hears before he’s pulled under again, is Rick screaming his name. It echoes inside him like an epitaph.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot planned for this and I hope you continue to enjoy reading!


	3. Crooked

All Rick can see is the dark figure sinking below the vicious current.

“Daryl!” His voice is drowned out by the rushing water. He slips on the sinking earth beneath him. It’s a fight to even run along the river. There’s too much mud, waiting to trap him.

He follows the river down and around a tight bend of protruding rocks. He scrambles up a jagged edge and sees Daryl get snagged on a boulder, hanging in the water. From this far away he just blended in with the rest of the debris.

“DARYL!”

Rick books it further down the shore of the river, where the water begins to calm and jumps in, taking his chances. He couldn’t wait any longer. He latches onto the nearest rock before the current takes him away and he forces himself forward, towards the other side of the shore. The current is stronger than he expected and he lands on his wounded leg, eliciting a yell. He crawls up the shore, pushing himself up and runs as fast as he’s able to the rock that had its grip on Daryl. He climbs on the flat gray surface and reaches over the edge to grab at Daryl’s vest.  He pulls, putting all his weight into it but his fingers keep slipping through. The current is going to pull Daryl under again soon. He lies down on his stomach, the rough rock beneath him, and reaches for him.

After a moment of slippery struggling, he’s able to grab Daryl’s arm and pull him up, over the edge.

Sweat drips down his face and rests on the tip of his nose as he listens for Daryl’s breath. He’s still. Silent.

“Not today.” Rick recites.

His hands are shaking and he can’t focus. The world is a blur; a background. Nothing else is visible but the man beneath him. He interlaces his fingers over Daryl’s and begins chest compressions.

“C’mon, Daryl.”  He says with quiet desperation. “I got you.”

The dread is settling in, rattling his insides apart. He can’t do this. He can’t do this without him. Not _him_. Not now.

Not after _everything._

Rick breathes in short panicked bursts, in tandem with his movements. He’d never stop. He’d do this forever if he had to. He’d do this until, he too, became a statue.

“Not yet.” He says aloud and wipes away the sweat that blurs his vision. Is it inevitability? Did he expect them to grow old with the woods? The two of them becoming vines; becoming trees.

With a quiet twitch, Daryl turned on his side and coughed up river water. The relief that floods Rick releases his heart from a vise.  

Rick squeezes Daryl’s shoulder lightly and Daryl looks up at him, heavy lidded and alive. “I drowned.” He says gruffly and Rick releases a small huff of a laugh.

There’s a click behind him and Daryl tenses beneath him. Rick knew that sound better than anyone.

“Hands where I can see them!” A voice says and Ricks slowly holds up his muddied wrists towards the sky. The sun is trying to break through the fog, making the trees look as though they are trapped in an expanse of spider webs. He takes a moment to breathe before he reaches for his knife and turns, throwing it with violent precision. It sticks inside the man’s chest and he falls back firing his gun accidentally towards the trees above.

The crows don’t scare so easily. They’ve grown used to watching men die. They remain there, on a dead branch, as Rick stands, walking over to the struggling man. Rick kicks his gun away and grabs it from the dirt. The man holds up his hand in a plea, gurgling nonsense.

“Who the hell are you?” Rick asks and points the gun at him. The man blinks and whines. Rick didn’t really have to ask, he knew he was part of the crew who helped destroy Alexandria. Did it really matter who they were? It’s all the same. These monsters of a different kind that roam the earth now; stealing all the light.

Daryl appears beside him a moment later, a little worse for wear. Rick rips the knife from the man’s chest and he lets out a howl of pain.  

“Did you see a boy in the woods?” Rick tries but the man stares at him with confused anguish.  More clouds gather above, the sun had lost the battle. Rick brings the knife down, silencing him in the mud. There’s a brief moment of shared heavy breathing.

“I lost my damn crossbow.” Daryl comments and turns towards the raging river.

“We’ll find it.” Rick replies and wipes his knife clean.

\--

They pick up the trail again, beside the river. It seems Carl had fared better when he crossed it. There’s a giant pointed rock ahead that slips partially into the water and beside it, caught between the rocks, is Daryl’s crossbow. It somehow didn’t sink. The current had pulled it here. As if it’s waiting for Daryl to claim it again. Daryl does just that.

No one else could tell, but Rick could, he could see the slight change in the tenseness of Daryl’s shoulders. He’s relieved to have found it.

A part of him wants to pretend that this is just a normal hunt. They conquered these woods together, alone, breathless. They lived in twigs and spoke in a silent language no one else could come close to understanding. He wants to pretend Alexandria is still behind him, not a smoking ruin. He wants a lot of things. They were all unattainable and fleeting.

Rick’s eyes find Daryl’s form, reading the dirt and its answers.

“Do you think he has Judith?” Ricks asks and he feels the horror of the alternative come tumbling out of him.

“I know he does.” Daryl replies confidently and it’s enough. It pulls Rick back to that metaphorical shoreline.

There’s a rumbling in the sky far off. A storm is set loose on the wasteland.

His son. His daughter. Everything that he is or ever will be rests in the heart of these trees. It rests in the cawing indifference of the crows that hounded them.

“We’ll find em’.” Daryl repeats and he looks to Rick with soft eyes.

He used to dream about reversing time and watching things rewind. He’d lose parts of himself and gain old ones. He’d be back in his nice little house; that suburbia. He’d be back to pretending the world wasn’t crooked and that something wasn’t about to crumble. It was like he could feel things about to shift. He could feel it, while lying in the grass dying from a gunshot wound those years ago.

Where do they go? The ones he loves? They just disappear like smoke.

\--

It’s when the sun had given up and let the moon take the sky over that they find a small shack. It’s been blown mostly apart by a storm long ago but it’s partially standing. It’s where the tracks led them.

“Rick…” Daryl calls him over, hidden behind the splintered wall. His boots crunch on the kicked up rocks as he follows Daryl’s eye line.

There, written in dried blood on the wood is a message:

_Dad, we’re headed to the coast. I hope you find this. Carl._

He stands there, the words blending together, making his eyes burn. There’s a dead Walker lying beside the wall. Its blood had been used for the message.

“Told you he has Judith. Now we gotta catch up is all.” Daryl says and steps back surveying their surroundings.

Rick still stood there, his eyes finding the dirt below. His relief is drowned by guilt. “I hope the others made it.” Rick can’t imagine there’d be some big happy reunion on a beach somewhere in the future. He could hope that some of them still lived, out there somewhere.

“They ain’t so easy to kill.” Daryl says and motions for him to follow.

All Rick can find solace in is that his children are alive out there and that the man ahead of him is breathing. Always breathing.

Rick says, quietly, “Promise me.”

“Promise you what?” Daryl questions and rests his crossbow comfortably against his shoulder.

_That you’ll exist here forever._

 Daryl looks back at him but Rick understands he won’t make promises he can’t keep.


	4. Wolves

The waking is slow. His eyes are heavy. The first thing he notices is the smell of burning wood. Not the usual campfire aroma. This is wild, like burning ozone. If he listens close enough he can even hear the flames in the distance. Daryl sits up quick from his make-shift bed in the dirt. It’s dark out, the stars are hidden from view. There’s a smoky haze to his surroundings. He stands, noticing Rick’s dark silhouette ahead against the opening of a field. Beyond that, the horizon is on fire. Tall flames reach up towards the sky. The fire had grown large at some point in the night, uncontrollable. Rick is just standing still, observing it, untrammeled by it. Daryl slowly walks up beside him and keeps his eyes ahead towards the flames.

“I don’t know how it started.” Rick states and they both stand side by side, watching it eat up the grass. The smoke leaves wisps in the air above. When Rick turns to Daryl, he sees the fire reflected in his pupils.

“It’ll burn for a while.” Daryl comments and Rick is still staring at him with that open expression. It irritates him. Rick once told him that he ‘didn’t want to live with his head in the clouds’ and then he goes and looks at him like he is now. Daryl has never gotten what he wanted and it sure as hell isn’t about to change now.

He moves his eyes to the flames and watches them create illusions for him in the dark. There are shadowed Walkers entering the flames by the dozens.

“We should get a move on.” Daryl says and Rick nods.

The smell of dead searing flesh assaulted his senses. It wasn’t anything he shouldn’t be used to by now but it still bothered him, even after all this time.

They walk through the overgrown field with the fire at their left and head away into the darkened gnarled branches that waited for them.

\--

Daryl had an old piece of jerky that would be sufficient enough for dinner. He tore it in half without a second thought and held it toward Rick who walked beside him. Daryl’s grateful that he takes it from him without protest and eats it. He observes that Rick’s limp is slowly getting better. There’s hope blooming in his features. Rick always carried enough hope for all of them, as if he once had an infinite supply. He’s been quieter though, these past couple of years. _Not so infinite._

They follow Carl’s tracks to an abandoned gas station against the road. The doors had been busted open and there are skeletons lying, broken up on the concrete outside of the door. Their feet shuffle by them and inside the gas station. There’s nothing in here, as he thought but they look anyway. The shelves are covered in cobwebs, empty.

Rick is standing still, staring down at the counter. Daryl moves up beside him to see a short message written in dust: _Dad, found Michonne. I hope you’re okay. Carl._

“Ain’t no question they’ll get to the coast now.” Daryl says and even though Rick doesn’t utter a word he can sense the immeasurable relief. 

\--

Daryl spots Michonne’s light quick footprints, in sync with Carl’s, along the busted up roadway. It begins to rain in a downpour, cleaning the dried blood off their skin. Daryl spots a crashed car that had slammed into a tree trunk and opens the driver’s side door, peeking inside.

Rick creaks open the door to the passenger’s side. They could ride out the storm inside the car. They’ve done it before. Daryl could tell it could be a bad one and with no proper shelter in sight they didn’t have much of a choice.

They climb inside, catching their breath, soaked in rain water. “Ain’t nothin’ fancy but it’ll do.” Daryl comments with a small smile.

“It’ll do just fine.” Rick replies.

Daryl pulls a smashed granola bar from his pocket and breaks off a piece for Rick. They sit chewing and observing the storm develop outside of the wreck they rested in. He spots a lone shambling dead, aiming for nowhere in the heavy rain. It reminded him of Merle. It had the same build, the same clothes. It’s like a mirage and he turns away, towards Rick’s direction. The view gave him a different sort of twisted feeling in his gut. They sit there, their faces turned toward one another, against the torn seats. Rick had that same expression he’d seen a handful of times before. The open affection. It usually drove him crazy but he felt calm, aware.

They blink at each other, silent and the windows blur. The storm is just background noise. Rick breaks eye contact, swallowing and looking ahead at nothing. “You should get some rest.”

Now, Daryl felt that pang of annoyance and turns forward, mirroring Rick’s eyeline. The rain is pouring down so heavy it’s like they’re underwater. He could imagine they were at the bottom of the ocean. Two sea urchinds looking for home.

“I already got my beauty sleep.” Daryl says and turns to see Rick’s eyes already closed. He had passed out from exhaustion.  It’s the Rick Grimes way.

Daryl spent the next few hours checking over his bow and slapping himself to keep awake. He always slept through rain storms when he was little. After a while it resembles static, white noise and lulls him into a false comforting cocoon.

It isn’t long before the comforting sounds of the storm are abruptly shattered.  He hears a truck down the roadway, headed in their direction. Daryl doesn’t make a move to wake Rick up in case they were passing through.  He waits in silence, his crossbow resting in his lap at the ready. The truck slows and he can hardly see the piece of junk in the downpour. A couple of figures jump to the ground from it.

“Rick…” Daryl tries and slaps his hand on Rick’s chest startling him awake. “There’s a truck.”

Both Daryl and Rick duck below the car windows. They hear the muffled talking of the men, calling to one another. They were growing closer. They kept their eyes trained on one another, staying still, barely a breath between them. The rain is still heavy outside and it helps hide them when the crunching footsteps approach the car.

“The bitch isn’t here. I can’t see shit.” The man says from outside and Rick tenses. Daryl squints at him, gripping his crossbow.

Another one calls back, “We have the kid. It’s only a matter of time before we find her and the baby.”

Rick’s eyes are wild, “They have Carl.” He harshly whispers. He reaches for the door and Daryl pulls at his tattered shirt.

“Hold up a second. We can track em’ back to their hole. We don’t go out there guns blazin’.” Daryl says quietly.

Rick has that look on his face. It’s like a switch turned off behind his eyes and Daryl knows no matter what he says won’t matter. He already made up his mind.

Rick pushes the creaking door open and moves quick, drawing his gun. He shoots the nearest guy dead before Daryl can get out of the car. He can hear the men scrambling and screaming curses into the rain. He’s getting soaked again. His hair is stuck to his face and neck, uncomfortably. He fires at the figure running towards him with his crossbow, and the figure goes limp. There’s symmetry to their movements. Daryl shoots one coming up out of the woods on the left and Rick fires his gun killing one approaching Daryl. The truck is blurry against the rain and there’s only one figure standing there on the road. He looks spooked and begins to run into a small field of dried grass. Rick takes off after him immediately. The bastard never had a chance.  

Daryl takes his time, hanging back, and holding his crossbow against his chest. He peeks into the beat-up truck to see nothing of note in the cab but in the truck bed there’s a large gray stained bag. He looks over his shoulder, into the field, to see that Rick caught his prey like the wolf he is. He turns back to the bloodied bag and unlaces it, pulling it apart. He steps back, holding his hand up to his face to ward off the smell.

Inside the bag were body parts, legs, and arms mostly. It’s a collection, as if they were collecting limbs for the hell of it but Daryl knew better. Desperate times and all that.

Daryl turns when he hears the pained grunts behind him. Rick is dragging the wounded man from the field onto the road.

“Tell me about the boy you have.” Rick says, darkly and pulls his knife out from his belt. The man tries to turn to crawl away, fruitlessly and Rick stabs the knife into his kneecap. The man cries out to the trees as if they could save him.

“Tell me…about the boy.” Rick says gruffly and the man sobs pitifully.

Before Rick can twist the knife, the man whimpers, “He’s at… the house. O-ur house. Down the road.”

“Down the road where?” Rick asks and grabs the man by his dirty shirt.

“The turn off is by an old truck stop sign. I swear! Please!”

Rick throws the man back down to the road and rips out his knife. The man wails, most likely attracting the dead.

Daryl approaches cautiously and adds, “These assholes are cannibals. They been huntin’ down others and takin’ their limbs. Found a bag full of em’”

Rick shakes his head and there’s a quiet moment where they just stand there, listening to the sobbing.

“I’ll do it.” Daryl says and Rick clenches his jaw, looking down at the wounded man at their feet.

“I got it.” He replies and brings the knife down with brutal efficiency.

\--

What Daryl wouldn’t give for a goddamn cigarette. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel absently.

The truck had plenty of gas in it and they find the sign like the man had said. He turns off onto the dirt, to a small path that bends the trees.

Rick is staring at the dashboard with a concentrated intensity.

“We’ll get your boy back.” Daryl comments and Rick snaps his eyes to him. The animalistic brutality he displayed earlier had vanished. He’s staring at Daryl now, like Daryl knew everything and held everything. Daryl isn’t prepared for it and it catches him off guard, sets him apart from the car. It’s like he’s just floating there in between somewhere.

Rick could tear him up and make him whole, all in one look. One word. No one should have that kind of power and Daryl fought to be alone for years. He made sure no one got near him but somehow, a cop from a nowhere town in Georgia, made his home in Daryl’s head as if he’s always been there.   


	5. Release

That house out in the dirt between the brambles is overgrown. It’s a tree in its own right. A tree that holds something dark inside the bark. Not even light is safe in the windows. The shadows claim that territory. Rick felt beleaguered, driven mad by desperation. They had his son. Those men who are worse than the moaning dead.

The scene out front is unexpected. Daryl parks the truck on the grass beside the nearest fresh body. The bodies of the men made a trail all the way to the front door. Rick steps out of the truck, his boots hitting the soil and he stands above the body of the nearest one. His head had been cut off, cleanly. Michonne had been through here.

“This is Michonne’s doin’” Daryl repeats.

“Carl!” Rick calls and heads straight for the open front door.

The porch is falling apart and caved in on one side, and the entry way is covered in thorns as if it grew there on purpose.

There’s another dead cannibal lying in the hallway, his blood pools on the hardwood and sticks to their shoes. “Carl!” Rick harshly whispers.

The stairs to the second floor are completely crumbled. It looked to have worn away by rainwater and then just caved in. The floor is sagging above and even if they could get up there, it wouldn’t be safe to walk on. The entire house looks like it’s about to bury itself beneath the land. Rick didn’t want to be in it when that happened.

“Best not walk over there.” Daryl says and points to the soggy floor by the fireplace.

Rick thinks of his house in Georgia, all those empty rooms. If it hadn’t been burned down, it would have been falling apart like this place. The rain would have had its way with the memories.

There’s a creaking sound coming from behind the door that leads to the basement. Daryl eyes Rick, quietly and they exchange glances.

Daryl holds up his crossbow and nods for Rick to open it. Rick grabs the rusted doorknob and flings it open.  They are confronted with the smell of old excrement and rotted flesh. It’s par for the course but they scoff at it anyway. It’s an innate discomfort that hasn’t quite disappeared yet. Rick steps down first on the wooden creaky stairs, his gun out, pointed down into the darkness below. There’s just enough light coming in from a fogged window somewhere.

Down at the bottom of the stairs he blanches, keeping his feet on that final step. Below, are bodies, some old and some new, piled on top of one another. None of them are moving. This is a storage room for their preserves.

“Sick bastards.” Daryl huffs, pointing his crossbow at the grotesque scene.

“Carl!” Rick calls again but he knew. He knew that Michonne had come for Carl, exacting revenge where it need be and there’s nothing left but the dead.  

Daryl rests his hand on his shoulder and Rick blinks at him.

They ascend the stairs out of the basement and the birds are chirping outside. The sun is radiating through the torn curtains. Rick steps out of the screen door at the back, that had been kicked open long ago. There are tracks in the mud leading away from the house. Daryl points to them and then looks to the wide open blue sky above them. Rick had anticipated a fight coming here but now with no one left, he’s placated. Even though Carl and Judith weren’t with him, he knew they were safe. He knew that they’d find each other again. They always will.

“I’m starvin’.” Daryl comments and looks to the woods. Then it’s like nothing ever happened. The crows are silent for the first time in a long while and he felt like he could think. He could focus and rationalize.

Daryl disappears into the brush first and Rick follows after him.

\--

They eat squirrel meat by the firelight and the night is crisp, clear. The moon is a crescent above the dark trees.

There are so many things he wants to say to the figure across from him but he can’t form the words. Nothing is ever good enough to convey the comfort in their movements or the ease of simply falling into place. It’s their dance. The fire crackles between them pleasantly and Daryl lays back looking up at the bright stars.

“You know your stars, Rick?” Daryl asks and Rick mirrors him, lying close to the fire.

“I used to. I got Carl a telescope before this.” Rick lets his eyes roam over the vastness. Daryl points, comfortably and says, “That there the little dipper?”

Rick felt warmth bloom in his chest. “Yes. Cassiopeia is around here somewhere.”

“Ain’t nobody ever showed me stars. Merle thought it to be a waste of time. I’d go out lookin’ on my own.”

The fire pops and Rick traces the shapes, connecting the dots. “I always found it humblin’.”

Rick turns his head to glance at Daryl when he notices that he’s already looking his way. The fire is dying, slowly and soon they’d just have the quiet night between them.

“That wonder in your face.” Daryl comments and Rick squints at him.

“What do you mean?”

Daryl moves his eyes away, “It’s nice is all.”

Rick turns back towards the sky with a small smile forming on his lips.

\--

A fog rolls in sometime late in the night and by morning it’s hovering around them, making it hard to see far ahead. They catch the tracks again and they veer off, downwards towards a ravine.  Rick and Daryl hike along it, keeping a look out for any of the dead but there are none to be found here.

Out in a large clearing by an old road is small food store out in the middle of nowhere. The sign had long been torn off and it’s only a guessing game now. It’s still a ways down the gravel road and their shoes kick up rocks into the grass.

“Think there’s anythin’ left in there?” Rick asks, keeping his eyes on the store.

“Dunno. Best find out either way.”

The closer they walk to the store front the more Rick begins to feel uneasy. It started off lingering in the background like always but then now, walking in the quiet, something is off. Their shoes are too loud, they were too comfortable. The fog incircles the store, moving upwards towards the small sunken roof.

Rick can tell Daryl feels it too. He witnesses his shoulders tense and he holds his crossbow just a bit higher.

Rick is about to voice his concern when a gunshot rings out.  The familiar excruciating sting claims his gut and he stumbles. His hand comes away with blood and the sound is sucked out of the world. He felt himself falling and the loud muffled yell of his name from Daryl’s lips.

He falls on his back to the dirt, knocking the wind from him and Daryl is suddenly above him. He blinked and he appeared there like an apparition. There’s another gunshot and Daryl flinches, grabbing Rick’s arm and forcing him to move towards cover.

Daryl is yelling curses but he can’t tell much beyond that. He can feel himself fading and his legs are wobbly.

They make it to the trees and Daryl sets him down beside a large vine covered trunk. He pulls a small cloth from his bag and presses it to Rick’s abdomen. He forces Rick’s hands to hold the cloth there and says, “I need to get this son of a bitch. Keep pressure on it.”

Rick grunts and tries to nod. Before he can force any words out, Daryl disappears. Rick’s breathing is erratic and he’s staring up at the cloudy sky. The fog keeps rolling in above him. Soon he wouldn’t be able to see the tops of the trees. He slides himself back closer to the trunk when he hears the dragging feet of a Walker nearby. The gunfire had drawn them here. He trains his breathing as sweat trickles down his temple. He can hear the gurgling screeches close by. There’s more than one. He reaches for his gun with a pained moan and held it up in front of him. His fingers are slippery with his blood and his hands were shaking. He’s going to lose consciousness.

A Walker lumbers into view but it doesn’t notice him, it just disappears further into the fog.  He listens to the silence that follows.

He can feel his eyes drooping and that last bit of strength burning out like a candle.

Rick dreams of twigs snapping and that beautiful release; the letting go. It’s too soon though, and there isn’t enough tied up, not enough said but he knew deep down in his bones that there is no such thing as closure.

Not _here,_ in this sideways world.


	6. Breath

There’s a thrumming urgency underneath Daryl’s skin. It’s as if he could jump out of himself.

When he makes it back to the dilapidated store, the sniper is waiting for him at the back with a bowie knife. Daryl’s ready, as he always was.

He could tell it’d been a while since the man had been in a knife fight. He slashes forward, leaving himself vulnerable. Daryl didn’t waste any time. He aimed for the throat like a wild animal would. The nameless man dropped to the dirt; a gurgling mess. After he lies dead on the ground, Daryl searches his pockets and doesn’t find anything useful, except for a small key. A key that looked like it belonged to a padlock.

He kicks the backdoor open, crossbow in hand and aims ahead. Inside, there isn’t any shelves surrounding him. The remnants within the store are nothing but collected dust. It’s obvious the sniper hadn’t holed up here for long, his home base is somewhere else.

\--

The fog is surrounding him in thick wisps. It’s like he’s dreaming and can’t remember the world right. The trees even looked turned, crooked, wrong. He finds Rick against a tree trunk. He’s pointing a pistol at Daryl, until he steps from the fog. 

“C’mon. We gotta get you outta here.” Daryl says and throws Rick’s arm over his shoulder. He knew moving him wasn’t a good idea but there wasn’t much else he could do. They had to get out of reach from the fog and whatever else it dreamt up inside.

The store is the only option right now and he takes Rick in through the back since the front is barricaded. He sets up a small area in one of the corners, and rests him there. He moves his bag underneath Rick’s head. Rick is grabbing onto his shirt and squeezing through the material. Daryl knows he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Rick’s just trying to cling onto something as best as he can.

He knelt beside Rick and lifted his bloodied shirt. He pours water over the bullet hole from a crushed water bottle to get a sense of the wound. It’s to the left of his stomach. He turns Rick slightly and he yells in agony from the action.  There’s an exit wound. The bullet had gone straight through. He used what little gauze he had left to put pressure on it and Rick clumsily grabs his fingers, holding him there.

“The asshole had a place he holed up not far from here.” Daryl comments.

“Could…be more…of them.” Rick grits.

“I ain’t gonna sit around here. You need medicine. He was a loner. I know someone like him stocked up.” Daryl stands from his kneeling position and grabs his crossbow.

“Daryl..” Rick tries and he reaches out when he feels the pressure from Daryl’s fingers lift.

“Keep pressure on the gauze. I’ll be quick.”

Daryl grabs the snipers bag which is filled with ammo and dumps it on the floor before he exits the store into the wasteland.  

The thought of arriving back to find Rick had bled out, floats to the forefront of his thoughts. It sticks there, pushing him forward. He follows a single set of old tracks left by the sniper through the thick brush ahead. There’s nothing but silence that follows and the sound of his crunching boots. It’s unsettling and gives an edge to everything. Even the sunlight that started to peak through the fog didn’t feel quite right.

Luckily, the tracks didn’t lead him very far away. Ahead in a small clearing of dead branches is a large old house with white pillars at the front. The walls and pillars are decaying and wrapped in long dead vines. Large boarded up and broken windows loomed high. He imagines this was a beautiful house once. Something he wouldn’t even be allowed near, let alone afford to call his own. Doesn’t matter now, no one owns nothing but their own skin.

Daryl’s careful when approaching the house in case he had a sniper buddy but it’s quiet. The dead quiet. The kind of silence that’s been here a while. He makes his way around back, not seeing an entrance he could sneak into. He’d have to go in from the front. The porch is covered in old soggy leaves and a torn apart bench sadly rests against the house. The front door had a padlock on it and Daryl had just the thing for it. He pulled the key he got off the dead sniper and snaps it satisfying open.

Inside the foyer, a chandelier dangles above him, barely hanging on by a wire from the ceiling. The stairs lead upwards to a grand balcony on the second floor. There’s a skeleton on the ground by the stairs but nothing else of note. The dining hall, the sitting room, the living room were all falling apart as be expected but they weren’t used by the sniper. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.  Daryl checked under frayed faded rugs and found no hidden hatch to climb into. This house is a ruin. It’s a museum of things that don’t hold any meaning or purpose to anyone.

Up the creaky stairs are the bedrooms, most of the beds are rotted wood or sunken in from a leak in the ceiling that was never fixed. He stands in the doorway of a nursery and eyes the crib. There are spider webs on the toys strewn on the floor. The light shone in where a board had fallen off and something caught his eye in the busted closet beside the changing table. Something metal is glistening. He walks inside the large closet and sees a string hanging from the ceiling with a metal pin on the end. There’s an attic.

He pulls on the string, unfolding small wooden stairs before him. He expected dust to collapse on top of him but none did. This is where the sniper stayed, it had to be.

At the top, when he peaks his head in, he’s sees the make-shift living quarters. There’s a bed of blankets in the corner and a lantern with a pile of books resting beside it. Daryl stills and stands in awe at the shelves that surrounded the attic. The shelves that had been taken from the store and brought here. They were filled. Every single one. There are cans of food, shampoo, water, even soda. He moves further into the room and sees the shelf at the back. It’s been stocked with meds which had to have taken years to collect. This place is like a gift. It made him wary, like it’s a mirage and that something is going to lash out and take it all away. He blinks his eyes against it. The shelves of supplies remained. He wasn’t dreaming. There’s even a sled sitting in the corner which the sniper used during the winter months. He grabs the rope connected to it to drag it back with him.

\--

He arrived back at the empty store and pushed his way in from the back. He stood there for a moment looking over at Rick, who is lying there still but he could see he’s still breathing. His chest rose and fell and it’s enough.

“You ain’t gonna believe what that asshole had stocked up.” Daryl says but Rick doesn’t stir. His eyes are closed and his hand rested over the gauze.

He pulls the sled inside and scratches the floor as he drags it over beside Rick. There’s a painful exhaustion creasing his brow in his sleep. He gently grabs Rick’s arms and slides his back against his chest. The back of Rick’s neck rests against his shoulder as he pulls him carefully over to the sled.

He secures him on the old wood and tests it out, pulling it across the floor.

“It’ll do.” He says.

He gathers what’s left of their things and collects the ammo, to put back in the bag. He pulls the sled with a grunt out of the door.

There’s hope trying to make room his chest when there wasn’t any before. Even if Rick is lying on a sled shot, getting dragged through the forest, he somehow knew they’d pull through this too. There’s something that tethered them to this hell. It’s the balance of quiet understanding. Daryl’s purpose lies behind him with his eyes closed.

The hike to the house isn’t as bad as he thought it’d be but it’s the strain of getting Rick up the stairs and into the attic that prove the most difficult. The stairs that led to the attic are just wide enough to support the sled and he uses all of his strength to pull the rope upwards.

Once inside, he closes the attic door and immediately starts rifling through the medical supplies. He gathers what he can in his arms and dumps it beside Rick’s unconscious form.

“You hold on now.” Daryl whispers.

\--

When the night claims the fog, Daryl sits beside Rick, eating a can of pears. He hadn’t had pears in years. They taste like a little bit of heaven. He feeds Rick some water and chews slowly, observing him.

“You best wake up or I’m gonna eat all the damn food.”

After drinking what’s left of the can, he tosses it against the wall and studies the shelves with a lantern. He grabs a can here and there, reading the label and feeling the blessed weight of it in the palm of his hand. There’s even chocolate bars resting on the edge of the shelf. They’re smashed and melted but he wasn’t going to pass that opportunity up. He grabs one from the shelf and lets a piece of old chocolate melt on his tongue as he collects a blanket. He rests it lightly over Rick and listens to the silence that surrounded them. He didn’t hear the moans or screams of the dead. He didn’t hear the crows feasting happily on a corpse. If he listens close enough he can hear Rick’s soft breath and the creaking boards of the old house beneath them. He’s reconciled the truth long ago. He’d live and die by the rise and fall of that quiet fragile breath of his companion.


End file.
